


One Marvelous Man

by MHMoony



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-TSS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHMoony/pseuds/MHMoony
Summary: Friends don’t look at each other the way they did, nor do they let their hands linger on each other longer than necessary, and they most definitely do not start throwing a hissy fit when one of them is found with a hickey on their neck that was not given to them by the other.





	One Marvelous Man

**1986**

Harry Hart was lying in bed in the new house in London he recently bought thanks to the generous paychecks Kingsman provided. It had been eleven months and twelve days since his induction as Galahad, and the best year of his entire life. Granted, twenty-two years was not exactly the longest lifespan to have had much experience to consider one year as ‘the best,’ but Harry was grateful all the same. He absentmindedly stroked Mr. Pickle’s soft fur as the small dog rested against his side, the streets of London quiet in the middle of the night.

He had just gotten back that morning from a three week undercover mission in the USSR that ended up with him not really needing to do much of anything, which was fortunate for the world as a whole, but rather dull for the young agent who was excited and ready to get his hands dirty. Another downside to being stuck on the continent for an extended period of time was that, unlike every other mission he has had since becoming a Kingsman agent, Hamish (codename, Emrys) was not his handler. Not that Harry was surprised. Before he left, the two had gotten into a row over where they stood in whatever relationship was developing between them. Harry could no longer stand by and honestly say that what they have been doing for the six months and twenty-eight days out of the past eleven months and twelve days could simply be considered as friends with benefits.

Friends don’t look at each other the way they did, nor do they let their hands linger on each other longer than necessary, and they most definitely do not start throwing a hissy fit when one of them is found with a hickey on their neck that was not given to them by the other. That was a mistake, Harry could admit. Getting pissed at a pub on a night off and making out with the first thing with a pulse in a back alley was not the most gentlemanly of actions. But how Hamish had reacted--dropping passive aggressive comments and rolling his eyes and downright glaring at him--caused Harry to reevaluate what his best friend’s feelings for him might be and, most importantly, what his own feelings were towards the Merlin-in-training. Which, he found, were emotions that most definitely fell far past the notion of just friends.

“Oh, Mr. Pickle,” he lamented, “how easy your life must be, hm?” The yorkie continued sleeping.

\---

**Three Weeks Prior**

Harry knocked on the doorframe of Hamish’s office, looking at the young tech tinkering with some gadget at his desk. He looked up and Harry could have sworn he saw the man’s eye twitch before his face became a composed indifference.

“Galahad,” he greeted evenly, “what can I do for you?”

Harry cleared his throat. Hamish hadn’t called him anything but Galahad since he had been caught with that rather distinct bruise on his neck the week before. “I was actually wondering if we could talk, Emrys.”

Hamish sighed and put down what he was working on and gestured for him to come in. Harry closed the door behind him and walked towards his friend, shoving one hand in his pocket and placing the other on the desk. He studied Hamish for a moment. The man was tense and determinedly keeping his gaze on his desk. On their laid a pair of glasses, bits of wire and metal, a toolkit, and, interestingly, a le Carré novel. _Of course he’s reading that_ , he thought amusedly, _what else would he be reading_. He turned his attention back to the man in front of him. “What’s going on, Hamish?” he asked quietly.

He saw his jaw tense before he turned to leer at Harry. “I don’t know what you mean, _Galahad_.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Harry rolled his eyes and turned around, taking a few steps away from the desk before facing the other man again, his own eyes narrowing. “You know bloody well what I’m talking about, _Hamish_. All week, you’ve been nothing but rude and caustic towards me, that is, when you weren’t outright avoiding or ignoring me, and I demand to know why.”

“Oh, well if the great Harry Hart demands it,” he replied, sarcasm dripping in his tone.

“Don’t you bloody patronise me,” Harry said moving quickly to him. He bent down and placed his hands on the armrests of Hamish’s chair, forcing him to make eye contact. Neither said anything for a few moments, the tension in the air thick and heavy. He saw Hamish’s eyes flicker towards his neck briefly.

“You know damn well why,” he grumbled.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“You’re a fucking prick.”

“And you’re a goddamn masochist. What are you trying to do? Play the martyr here? Make it so you could be the tragic romantic hero, heartbroken by a knight who decided to have some fun?” 

“Shut up,” he said dangerously quiet.

Harry knew he wasn’t being fair. He knew what he was saying was teetering extremely close to crossing some sort of line, but he wanted, _needed_ , to get some sort of reaction out of him. He needed to hear from Hamish’s own mouth exactly what had been going on with him that week so he could stop living in his universe filled with what-ifs and uncertainties. 

“What have you been doing this past week since you clearly haven’t been with me? Finding another toy to play with? Perhaps try and make me jealous?”

He saw Hamish get more and more tense, his hands curling up into fists on his lap. “You better shut your goddamn mouth, Hart.”

“Oh, so we’re back to real names, now, Hamish?”

“What do you want me to say, you bastard?”

“I want you to say what you’re really feeling.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can--”

“ _No_.” Hamish stood up, knocking Harry back a step or two, but they still stood close, chests almost touching. “Now if you please, _Galahad_ ,” he said in a low voice, eyes steeled against Harry’s, “I have work to do, and you have to get ready to leave in the morning.”

Harry stood still and looked at Hamish for a few more moments, willing the man to say something, but it was no use. The man who, one week ago, was whispering sweet nothings into his ear as he mercilessly drove him into the mattress had been replaced with the stoic tech, the steadfast handler that was currently training to become the next quartermaster. And although he wanted to stay, Harry knew when a battle was over. With one last look, Harry turned and made his way to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob and paused. Without turning, he said his last piece.

“If you had just bloody said it, Hamish, I would have said the same thing.”

He left without giving the other man a chance to say anything.

The next day, he couldn’t say he was surprised to hear Nimue’s lilting voice instead of the Scottish brogue to which he’d become so accustomed.

\--

Harry spent his three weeks in the cold hellscape that was Russia (had he been in a better mood and had not been in a prolonged fight with Hamish, he was sure he would have actually adored being in Moscow) thinking. Thinking about the multitudes of ways that conversation could have gone differently, thinking about what could have happened if he hadn’t gone and snogged some stranger behind a pub, and, more prominently, thinking about what Hamish was doing while he was away.

Although he had been making an attempt (and for the most part, succeeding) in becoming less proud, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to let go of his pride for once and go seek out the man upon returning. Instead, he went straight to Arthur for debriefing, thanked Nimue in her office for her assistance, picked up Mr. Pickle from the Kingsman Kennel Club (thank god they forwent the brief idea of calling it ‘Klub’ instead), and left for home, not once stopping by Hamish’s office or the labs.

He wondered if he even knew he was back.

Sighing, Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _So is this what I get for falling for an emotionally repressed Scotsman?_ he thought to himself.

An insistent knock on the door broke Harry out of his reverie. Mr. Pickle’s head popped up, having been woken up by the sudden noise. Harry’s brows crinkled as he looked over at the clock on his bedside table. 2:34am. “Who the bloody hell could that be?” he muttered as he slowly stood up from the bed. He opened the nightstand’s drawer and gently picked up his standard Kingsman pistol that he stored in case of emergency. “Stay here, Mr. Pickle,” he ordered, but the small dog who had already curled up and fallen back asleep on the pillow.

Harry cautiously made his way downstair to the front door with the gun hidden behind his back. He most certainly wasn’t expecting company at this late an hour, and, as far has he knew, no one save those who had access to Kingsman agent records knew where he lived. Another impatient knock sounded through the door. Glancing through the peephole, Harry rolled his eyes and relaxed before opening the door.

“Ah, yes. Hello, Hamish. What can I do for you at two thirty in the morning?” Harry greeted him. Hamish looked tense, his lips drawn into a thin line, his jaw set.

“We are not Jim and Bill.”

Harry looked at him perplexed. “I’m sorry?”

He held up his hand where he was holding a book. The le Carré novel. Of course. “ _We are not Jim and Bill_ ,” he insisted.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Come inside, Hamish, it’s dreadfully cold out there.” He ushered the other man inside and closed the door, placing the gun on the table in the threshold before leading them into the living room. He sat down on one of the wing backed armchairs and gestured to the couch sitting across from him. “Please, sit so you can tell me what you’re going on about.”

Hamish sat down and looked at the book in his hands. Harry patiently waited, staring at him curiously. In terms of seeing the man again, he did not think it would be in the middle of the night with him gripping an espionage novel and waving it in his face.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hamish said at last.

Harry’s brow raised in slight surprise. “Quite alright, Hamish. I should apologize myself. I said some nasty things to you before I left.”

The other man shook his head. “It’s not as though they were unwarranted.” He was quiet again, contemplative almost. A few more silent moments passed between the two before Harry spoke.

“What’s all this book business you were talking about earlier?”

Hamish looked up at him sheepishly. “I suppose that was a bit dramatic of me.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a slight smirk. “Yes, I thought all of the theatrics were left for me between the two of us.” He received a chuckle in response, allowing for a real smile to make its way onto Harry’s face.

Hamish took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking again. “This is going to sound incredibly stupid, but these damn books sort of…helped me put things into perspective, I guess.”

“A series about spies and espionage in 1970s Cold War era gave you insight into…us. And, forgive me if this sounds a bit rude, how, may I ask is that even possible?”

The other man tilted his head in confusion. “Come now, Harry, you’re the one who started me on these, surely you know what I mean.”

Hamish was looking at him so sincerely which only perplexed Harry more. He tried to think about what exactly happened in the book--which one was he reading? Ah, _Tinker Tailor_ \--that could have caused the man to reexamine his life. What did he say at the door? _We are not Jim and Bill_.

Good lord.

“You mean to tell me that after reading this masterpiece of literary achievement, instead of focusing on the lies and deceit and betrayal and secret investigations, you chose to hone in on whatever relationship that was between Jim Prideaux and Bill Haydon," he teased. "I never took you to be such a romantic, Hamish.”

The other man rolled his eyes, but still gave a small smile. “That’s not it, you bastard. I just…” Hamish closed his eyes to collect himself for a moment before sighing and continuing. “I don’t want us to be them. Not that you or I would defect to any sort of enemy, just that…I know that we hadn’t exactly labeled… _us_ …but seeing you with that bloody hickey on your neck made me realize…I don’t want whatever is between us, to just be something that happened in our youth and left behind, only so we could be filled with loneliness and regret later on. I don’t want to be old and jaded and look back on these times and think what if. I want us to actually be an _us_.

“And that scared me, Harry. It scared the shit out of me. And I’m sorry that I took that out on you.”

Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest. “Well,” he said in a calm tone that betrayed the wealth of emotions that were bubbling inside, “I suppose if that’s what you want, then who am I to deny you?”

He felt himself smirk at the look of surprise that appeared on Hamish’s face. “Oh,” he said. “That’s…that’s good then.” A smile began to appear on his face. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Harry let out a laugh at the other man’s attempt at mild interest. “You ridiculous, gorgeous man, Hamish, get over here and kiss me already, will you?”

Hamish’s ears tinged pink, but chuckled and did as told, getting up from his seat on the couch and kneeling in front of Harry, moving his face close so that their noses were touching, breaths mingling. “You’re sure this is what you want?” he asked quietly, nerves lacing the question.

Harry gently placed his hands on either side of the man’s face, cradling his head as though he were the most precious gem he had ever seen. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Hamish’s eyes flickered towards his mouth before returning to the honey brown irises that were warm with affection and anticipation. He nodded slightly and smiled. “Right, then.”

He closed his eyes and softly pressed his lips against Harry’s. Harry felt warmth bloom throughout his chest as he pulled the other man a little closer, savoring in the taste, scent, feeling that was nothing but Hamish. Unfortunately, the need for air forced them to part. Harry rested his forehead against Hamish’s, content smiles etched into both of their faces.

“Mmm. Perhaps I should send John le Carré a fan letter. A thank you for getting you to knock some sense in that brilliant mind of yours.”

“You’re a little shit, Hart.”

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have me other way.”

Hamish smiled and shook his head. “Aye. That I wouldn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> "He has that heavy quiet that commands. Hard-headed, quite literally. One of those shrewd quiet ones that lead the team without anyone noticing. Fan, you know how hard it is for me to act. You have to remind me all the time, intellectually remind me, that unless I sample life's dangers I shall never know its mysteries. But Jim acts from instinct...he is functional... _He's my other half; between us we'd make one marvelous man_."  
>  \- John le Carré, _Tinker, Tailor, Solier, Spy_


End file.
